


Housewarming

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoptive and real father Bobby Singer, Crack Treated Seriously, Dean is Fifteen, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Moving, Naked Castiel, New house, Old Friends, Protective Dean Winchester, Sassy Castiel, Trans Castiel, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, moving in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You a trannie now, Winchester?” </p><p>Dean massages the fat of his lip, debating. He could whip up a really good excuse that wouldn’t compromise his manhood—like he keeps them around for his best friend, Charlie, who used to sleepover a lot before his dad got full custody, or he keeps them around as a nice service to the “explosion of chicks” that come piling through his front door on a daily basis since he moved in, but what comes out clear as toothpaste is minty is: </p><p>“No, but my boyfriend is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Housewarming

 

If Dean had it his way, army men would be wiped from the earth.                                             

Sammy’s eleven. Should he still be playing with little green gunmen? What kind of influence do they have when all they really do is worm through the sides of moving boxes and fester in the cracks like fungi? Slinkys cause less environmental damage or whatever the hell Sam rants on about, _and_ they come in rainbow. Do little green army men come in rainbow? No. They only come in puke green. (And smell like it, too.)

Dean tosses the box boldly and scraggly labeled “ **TOYS (PROPERTY OF SAM, NOT DEAN) _”_** aside in favor of scoping his surroundings. It’s odd not seeing the hallway peel back like a gambler’s deck of cards or hearing the floorboards squawk under the pressure of two supposedly growing boys. It’s also strange feeling the hum of the AC against his back, not the stab of mattress springs like silver forks staking claim into his vertebrae.

Despite the white-as-America color pallet and the fact that he and Sam have to share a room until Sam’s is repainted, Dean can eventually picture himself calling it home.

Before he can further delve into the broccoli green abyss, the doorbell, an imitation-gold plank with a pearly white and watchful eye, chimes from the living room. Albeit confused, Dean pulls himself up and makes his way down the hall. It’s probably someone trying to sell him a new life at a new, affordable low price He would take them on their offer had he still been living with his father.

Dean didn’t bother with the peephole—this _is_ the suburbs, after all, not some shitty motel in Topeka.

The door opens with a slight creak and Alastair’s voice registers at just the right amount of nasal and nosy: “You gonna cue us in next time you move across town?”

“Hello to you too, asshole,” he gripes, then, correcting himself: “ass _holes_ , plural. Come on in.”

Gordon, Victor, and a boy he’s not familiar with idle behind Alastair on his doorstep. By the looks of him, he makes for a good Dean Winchester stand-in: broad-shouldered, shaggy brown hair masked by a black sailor’s cap that’s seen better weather and bright blue eyes. (Dean has bright green, but whatever.) He seems to swing his weight around like a bell victim to the ever-changing wind.

The three boys shadow closely behind Alastair like the alpha in a pack of wolves (which, to be fair, he kind of is—Alastair may be one inch around the diameter from being a wafer, but like hell if he isn’t a beast). The temp, whose name he comes to learn moments later as Benny, offers his hand for shaking, which Dean accepts, then pulls him into a classic bro-hug that’s _certainly_ not acceptable.

Dean doesn’t realize why until Benny’s Cajun-fried tone beats against his ear: “You gotta help me, brotha.”

Dean stifles a laugh long enough to compose his thoughts, “I’ve got a burner phone in my dresser drawer, top drawer underneath my socks, long silver ugly thing, hard to miss. Text your parents, tell them you’re safe.”

“Thank you,” Benny breathes as Dean underhandedly points in the direction of his new bedroom.

“You gonna show us some hospitality or what?” Victor chimes.

Gordon follows suit, “Yeah! I’m hungrier than a sorority girl’s booty!”

“ _One time,_ Gordon,” Victor groans, “and it wasn’t even _you_ who shacked up with her.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he heads towards the fridge, grabbing three Sprites and a bag of Lays from the counter. He tosses the latter at Gordon, who almost doesn’t catch it. “Go nuts.”

Alastair chuckles as juice fizzles down the side of his soda, “Alright, Dean-o. Give us the grand tour.”

Dean takes them through the house, feeling too much like a tourist guide. What’s he supposed to say, really? They obviously see the living room, they passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen, the master bedroom is out of commission, seeing Bobby will promptly kick Dean’s ass into the Mississippi if he so much as let anyone other than his boys _breathe_ in the same space, much less three dim-witted Zitzillas.

The only thing left is Dean’s shared room and the guest bathroom. Luckily, none of the testosterone in the house has had time to stink it up. There’s a small rack for a hand towel to the left, a porcelain sink, toilet, and shower. There’s a slight dampness in the air, but not enough to stand out.

At least not like other things.

“Winchester, is it that time of the month?” Victor hoots, gesturing to the 36 pack of _Always_ pads leaning against the frame of the toilet. 

Gordon shoves his shoulder, “You a trannie now, Winchester?”

Dean, stunned into silence, doesn’t respond. Alastair’s quick in backing Gordon’s question, his laughter quickly transitioning into a growl: “Answer him.”

Dean massages the fat of his lip, debating. He could whip up a really good excuse that wouldn’t compromise his manhood—like he keeps them around for his best friend, Charlie, who used to sleepover a lot before his dad got full custody, or he keeps them around as a nice service to the “explosion of chicks” that come piling through his front door on a daily basis since he moved in, but what comes out clear as toothpaste is minty is:

“No, but my boyfriend is.”

Not a single mouth flaps. Gordon and Victor’s disgusted surprise he can handle, but Alastair’s…

Before anyone can toss in another remark, the shower curtain flies open, revealing Castiel Novak, wrapped like a pig in a poke in a blue towel to match his eyes, messy brown hair slightly deflated unlike his sass, “That would be me, and bitch, I might be.”

“It’s okay baby, they’re just friends,” Dean replies.

Cas’s face lightens. “Oh, my bad, in that case—”

With one slight flick of his wrist, the towel pools around his feet. Decorating the underside of his breasts are long, red gashes as wide around as chart tape. His tanned and lightly glistening arms and abs bulge a little more no thanks to Dean, his faithful workout buddy going on six months now, and trapped between his hips stands an unshaved, inverted pyramid.

Gordon and Victor scramble out faster than Shaggy and Scooby with Alastair following suit with a “fucking Winchesters” just as Cas teases one foot out the shower.

Dean’s the first to break into laughter. Cas shakes his head with a gummy grin, reaching behind him for his towel when Dean’s hand latches onto his arm before pulling Cas in for a long, tongue-chasing kiss. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“You too,” Cas says, thumbs stroking in a slow turtle motion along the sides of Dean’s flushed face, “despite your assholian friends.”

Dean grazes his lips in a kiss over the palms of his hands, “They’re not my friends—not anymore.”

“Who came sprinting down the hall earlier?”

It’s Dean’s turn to part his mouth. “Oh shit, Benny.”

Cas scoffs followed by an almost endearing chuckle, “Benny _Lafitte?”_

“I guess, yeah,” Dean laughs, “you know him?”

“Not enough to distract me from all those clothes you’re wearing.”

 The bathroom door swings closed.

 

 

 


End file.
